The Tower Broken(19)

Mesema began her way down the silk runner, matching steps with the Empire Mother. To her right, ragged petitioners stood in a long line, and on her left, nobles and wealthy merchants rested on cushions. She put a hand on Nessaket’s elbow when she swayed: another dizzy spell. Sarmin waved them forwards and together they fell into obeisance, Mesema’s head not a foot from the slippers of the men who sat on the lowest step. Sarmin concluded his business with a few words and the exchange of more scroll-tubes.

Then his voice grew softer. ‘Rise, my wife; rise, Empire Mother.’ As they stood he looked at Nessaket with a frown. ‘My mother is tired. She requires a cushion.’

Azeem looked around, his mouth pinched beneath his long nose. Nessaket never sat, so the question of where to place her had never before been raised. The men on the bottom step muttered, not wishing to be displaced. With her head Mesema motioned to a stray cushion near the edge, apart from the others. Surely that would not be improper?

Azeem made a show of preparing it, then Mesema helped Nessaket to sit. For all of her weakness, Nessaket sank to the cushion as gracefully as ever and sat with her back straight, her eyes watchful.

With that settled, Sarmin turned his attention to his wife. ‘How is my son Pelar?’ He had not been able to watch the boats as she had, for he had had to go directly from the private chamber to the throne room.

‘He is very well, Magnificence.’ A flicker of sadness in his eyes, then he motioned for her to take her place behind him. She could not tell him about the carriage she had seen. In court she must always behave as if Sarmin knew everything already, but she pressed the back of his hand in passing, a warning.

Azeem spent some time organising the scrolls upon his table and marking his books. Petitioners shifted on their feet. Guards suppressed yawns. The noise among the courtiers had reduced to a murmur when Nessaket first sat among them, but as they waited, the volume increased until voices once again filled the room, calming only when the harpist began a tune upon his strings. Mesema watched the door.

At last the gong sounded, startling everyone except for herself, Nessaket and the emperor – Sarmin managed never to look startled by anything.

The music stopped with a sudden twang as the great doors parted for the immense herald. He walked along the runner without hurry, his steps evenly paced, his long years of practise ensuring he was always calm and reserved, no matter the situation.

‘Captain Yulo of the White Hats, Magnificence, Mura of the Tower, and a prisoner.’ He bowed his way from the room, walking backwards.

Mura of the Tower! They had assumed her dead. Govnan had grieved for her as for a daughter – and yet, here she was, her white robes tied with a gleaming blue sash, approaching the Petal Throne. She was younger than Mesema had expected, and short, her head coming only to the captain’s shoulder. Her eyes contained the brightness of the sky, and she did not focus on anything in the room but rather, seemed to look through it all into a world beyond.

Mesema was so intent on the mage that she noticed the prisoner only when the captain pushed him to the floor. His hands were tied behind his back and when he landed on one knee, the other leg pushed out awkwardly to his side. A burlap sack hid his face and draped over his sun-cracked leather jacket.

The mage and soldier came forth to make their obeisances. A grin danced over the captain’s lips. He must have known this was a great opportunity.

‘Rise, and speak,’ said Sarmin. Only his fingers, pressed into the petals on his armrests, betrayed his fierce interest.

‘Your Majesty,’ said the captain, ‘I have recovered the mage Mura and captured the man who held her.’

‘Where did this blessed event occur?’ asked Azeem, dislike heavy in his voice. Azeem valued humility over many other virtues.

‘He was attempting to sneak into the city, Grand Vizier.’ With a wide smile Yulo returned to his captive. ‘It is the traitor, Majesty,’ he said, untying the sack. ‘The horse chief who betrayed us.’ As he lifted the man’s head, Mesema saw a pointed chin, a scraggly beard, two eyes green as grass, and then a shock of golden curls. She took a step forwards and stopped herself. She must control her face and her beating heart, for it was Banreh on his knees before her.





9



Sarmin


Sarmin settled onto the throne in the private audience chamber. Removing the Windreader chief from the commotion of the throne room had been the only choice, but the council was seething at being refused immediate vengeance. ‘Let us kill him now, Magnificence,’ General Lurish had said, his sword out, and Dinar had crept behind the chief, a terrible grin on his face, as if he meant to claim his prize at once. But as much as Sarmin had loved his brother, this was not Beyon’s court; he would not allow open violence. This had furthered the rift between himself and High Priest Dinar, but that was a matter for another day.